Poetry: Gone
South America, he said, pointing out to sea.
Venezuela, those funny French and Dutch places
with the brightly coloured flags, and Brazil.
The boy followed his finger but understood nothing.
Just think, he said, you could walk off into the jungle
over there and never be heard of again.
Live the rest of your life with tight-faced little Indians
in loin cloths. Shoot arrows at prying helicopters.
All this gone.